


To A Stranger

by patriciaselina



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: (rather: no ending), Abrupt Ending, Ambiguous Relationships, Gen, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Romantic Friendship, Spoilers for the movie abound, first drafts, incomplete chapters, pre-canon fic, sorry for that, you decide whether everything is romantic or not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2017-12-23 08:43:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/924254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patriciaselina/pseuds/patriciaselina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing is, Chuck Hansen and Mako Mori used to be friends, back when they were teenagers at the Jaeger Academy. But right now, every time they look at each other, it's like looking at a person they've never known. Soon enough, Raleigh Becket enters the picture, and the world continues ending. A story in three acts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be using [this timeline](https://docs.google.com/document/d/16HjV8i-xRQmKsaTQ2Eby6XVFqls6BbswLq8IC1oOwE0/edit?usp=sharing) for this fic, and if it deviates from canon or your headcanons, I am sorry, but this is what I am going to use. The dates used in said timeline have been gleaned from my copy of the novelization, so...yeah. Hope you don't mind it much. The first chapter takes place during the time from 2018-2020, and the second and third chapters are the events of Pacific Rim, basically. That being said, here are the words: hope you like them!
> 
> (UPDATE 12.19.14: For many reasons, some of them personal, this fic shall henceforth not be completed. Included therein are the little that remains of the first drafts of both chapters 2 and 3 - hopefully they'd be to your liking, somehow.)

**[ ](http://patriciaselina.tumblr.com/post/57955219753/to-a-stranger-a-pacific-rim-fanmix-based-on-an) **

**_Chapter 1_ **

_...I have somewhere surely lived_

_a life of joy with you,_

_All is recall_ _’_ _d as we flit by each other,_

_fluid, affectionate, chaste, matured,_

_You grew up with me,_

_were a boy with me,_

_or a girl with me..._

_\--To A Stranger,_ Walt Whitman

* * *

 

One day, you see her. Not _immediately_ , like some kind of silly, lovestruck teenager from a sappy romance novel, but _eventually_.

The cafeteria is busy and alive with the hustle and bustle of your fellow students, talking about things like kids your age are supposed to do.

See, in a normal life, you would have paid more attention to the conversations, to the aside glances of the girls wanting your attention, to the pointed glares of the ones who contemplate the state of you vis-a-vis the state of nepotism in the PPDC.

But, well, your life kind of stopped being normal since your dad decided to choose your life over your mum's.

Actually, life stopped being normal two years before that, with the first kaiju attacks, but for you, that was your turning point. You're young, but not young enough to not know you should be grateful, but damn it, your mum is gone and it's your fault.

Wait, no - your dad's fault.

The kaiju's fault too...all your faults, then. The point is: your mum is dead. Your life isn't normal anymore. So you go about not minding anyone, clutching your lunch tray, just raring to get away and be left alone, for once.

If you were a rose-tinted-glasses kind of person, you would go as far to say that it was fate that brought you to her. But you aren't, and so you look at her pragmatically - she had always been sitting there, and you only notice her because she is the only one who is not looking at you.

She has a table to herself in the rear, and it's as if her mere presence has averted gazes from a good majority of the tables, which is _perfect_. You figure sitting with Pentecost's silent sort-of daughter is just as good as sitting alone.

But just as you're about to suck it up and muster up the courage to just sit there, without restraint or preamble, she raises her head to look at you.

There is a faint remembering of how Mum had once told you _don't stare, that's rude_ , but you can't even chase after that thought with your relentless teenage grief because you cannot for the life of you find a way to stop looking.

Her eyes are dark, darker than anything you have ever seen, and for the first time in your short life you understand the mechanism behind black holes.

And this, _this_ is the one thing that leads you into speaking.

“Taken?” You ask, motioning to the negative space surrounding the girl.

You don't even know why you're asking, it's the most rhetorical question in the history of the universe and she might just say no anyway, this is _ridiculous_ and you should've just gone and took your lunch outside -

The girl nods once, dark eyes still mercilessly trained on you. She still doesn't speak, but there is an edge to her glare that just screams _what the hell are you waiting for? Get on with it, already._

* * *

 

Her name is Mako Mori. You think you might just like her.

Not _like her_ like her, even if you could see why people would think that's what's happening. Mako Mori is sharp-eyed and small-framed and absolutely unlike anyone else you've ever known, and she's not beautiful in the way girls usually are but she's got those eyes that burn their way into your soul.

But that's _not_ why you like her.

You like her because she started at the Jaeger Academy at all of fourteen and yet she puts all of you to shame. _All_ of you.

It should seriously be illegal, having someone pick up that much in a single year. She knows more about the inner workings of a Jaeger than all of you smushed together - unsurprisingly, seeing as even that first lunch she had been surrounded by reference material in lieu of people.

She's not a physically stronger fighter, what with her sorry lack of height and willowy thin limbs, looking more like a porcelain doll than a proper pilot, but she makes winning hard for everyone.

Even, you find out soon enough, for _you_.

Being neck-and-neck with a girl should rustle you up like it does the other students, but you seriously can't bring yourself to care.

Mako Mori was born for this.

This is true and believable enough that it is spectacularly unnerving.

A kaiju killed your mother, and their inevitable threat might as well have killed your father as well, what with how useless he's been to you lately. It is supposed to be _you_ who has been taking as naturally to the Academy as a duck to water, not anyone else, definitely not this odd girl.

Then again, people always did say no one did overwork like the Japanese.

So the second time you speak to her, it's with another question.

“How _do_ you do it?” you ask, and the expression on her face (startled, a rice ball halfway on its journey to her mouth) is downright hilarious and you would've laughed, really, if you weren't so focused on what Mako is going to say.

...or rather, on what she _doesn't_ say. She raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. You groan. “Oh, c'mon. We're a week into this silent treatment - which is _stupid_ , by the way - and I don't even know _why_.”

She opens her mouth as if to speak, and you speak over her, following some weird pent-up emotion that just might be called a _gut_ _feeling_.

“And don't you dare tell me you don't understand English. That's _garbage_. You understand your books,” - and here you pointedly glare at the book in her hands - “and you even do well in your written exams. You do English _just_ _fine_.”

“Reading and writing are different from _speaking_ ,” Mako retorts, and her voice is oh so _deliciously_ indignant _,_ though there is somewhat of a hesitant waver to it, still. “You would not understand.”

Well, you _really_ won't, what with your having had spoken English all your goddamned life, but for the sake of finally finding out just how this girl who doesn't even speak manages to blow you all out of the godforsaken water, you'll have to secede to the tumultuous whims of your curiosity.

“ _Try_ _me_.” you say, matching her glare with one of your own.

(It's the same glare your father told you will lead to the death of you someday, but his opinion isn't important.)

It feels somewhat like victory when she looks away first.

 _“Sensei_ \- no, the Marshall - he taught me how to read. Words on a page are easy.” Her tone of voice remains cold, but there is an undercurrent to her words, a dash of embarrassment. “Speaking is...more difficult. Words are easy, but they can mean different things.”

“And yet you _still_ manage to be Little Miss Know-it-all.” you frown, clicking your tongue unhappily. “If you don't like being around people so much, then how the hell are you going to be a pilot?”

Mako sits up a little straighter, if that's even possible. “I do not see how that will be a problem.”

You groan, even more unhappily. Girl probably thinks she can work fine without ever acknowledging the Drift. This makes you unhappy not because you think it's silly - rather, it's because you think the same thing in regards to yourself.

If you have to see another similarity between the two of you, it'll be too soon.

“What happened anyway? Why do you want to be a pilot so bleeding much?”

Mako's eyes grow darker, which should be impossible, but it's as if she's sucking the light clean out of the atmosphere so it must be what's happening. “Interesting. You have not heard?”

“Heard about what?”

“I thought you already knew, with everyone talking about it.” she says, and you can feel the inherent sarcasm in her tone.

 _Sarcasm_. That's new.

“Well, _excuse me_. I'm not exactly social, yanno.” you retort. It's a struggle to not reach for the back of your neck as awkward children do, but it's a struggle you lose. “And besides, the only other person I'm deciding to talk to happens to be such a well-rounded conversationalist.”

For all that Mako says she is bad at conversations, the girl obviously appreciates sarcasm, if the slight tilt of her mouth is any indication. “True enough.” she murmurs, and then continues on, louder:

“Do you know about the 'girl with the red shoe'?”

“The Tokyo survivor? Yeah, I guess. Hard not to, when my old man's tight with the Marsh - _oh_.”

When realization hits you, you find yourself wondering why it took you this long.

“That is right.” she replies to your unspoken question, eyes softer than you've ever seen and yet sharper and stronger than steel. “You are not the only one who wants them dead, _Charles Hansen_.”

* * *

 

Everything is kind of a blur, after that. As it turns out, wanting to kill large creepy monsters for the exact same reasons is a good conversation starter.

She calls you  _Hansen_ , mainly because while her English is almost impeccable her core sensibilities are still Japanese and she says  _I do not have the time to go over this with you_ so you decide that you can live with it.

(Even if it does remind you of your father, which is a bit  _not_  good.)

You call her  _Mako_ , which made her flush red for exactly one minute before you had asked her what the hell was going on. You can bet good money on this being some kind of culture clash, but she doesn't explain or otherwise complain about it, so you figure you'll understand in time.

Contrary to what some old men may say, you can and will have patience, thank you.

“Hang on, just wait a blasted half a minute. You're  _done_?”

Mako looks up from the hefty pile of books she hands you to fix you with a pointed glare. “What, you don't like them?”

“Of course I like 'em, I won't be borrowing 'em if I didn't like 'em, will I?”

“Then I see no problem with this arrangement.” Mako shrugs, smirking. “Just take them.”

You plan on being an arse and not reaching for the teetering Babel tower of books, if only to spite her, but what the hell are you thinking, you cannot refuse Mako Mori. You take the books from her and what do you know, you almost topple over at the sheer weight of it - how come she can carry all of this with ease, and you cannot?

“What surprises me is how you were able to finish these all off like a possum up a gum tree. It's been only, what, two days?”

“The secret to reading as fast as I can is simple, really.” she says, falling into step beside you. “I make do with very little sleep. It is not a suggestion. It is just what I do.”

“Very little? But I - “ you're just about to say something about the lack of dark circles under her eyes, but you see the slightly reddish tinge to her eyes well enough, so instead you ask, “ _Four hours?_ ” without even knowing why.

She stops dead in her tracks, considering. “Yes,  _exactly_. How did you know?”

There is a number of countless other ways you can play this off, but for now you settle for bleak honesty. “I actually have no clue. I  _thought_  four hours, so that's what I said.”

“ _Muzukashii_ ,” Mako murmurs,  _interesting_ , more to herself than anything. “Under our circumstances, it would not have been possible for you to have gleaned such data from a single look, no matter how hard you try to play it off as such - “

It's the most you've heard out of her in a single breath, and it's kind of worrying, in the  _oh-crap-will-she-die-on-my-watch_  sort of way.

“Hey there,  _easy_. I didn't get that from a look, all right? I'm not Sherlock Holmes. I guessed. It was a lucky guess. Can we  _please_  go along now?”

She looks back at you, with a look so comically amazed you would've laughed, at least just until she speaks. “I was not exactly talking to you.”

It is when she says that that you realize: of course she had spoken that much easily, she had been speaking in Japanese.

There is something you were supposed to say to that, a conclusion that would change your lives forever. But instead, you say “Maybe you  _were_ , y'know.” For once in your life, you are vying for levity.

You think you know  _exactly_  what it is that Mako is thinking, and you don't think a crowded hallway is the best backdrop for your metaphorical navels, and the contemplation of.

“But then again...if only a certain  _someone_  would hurry up and actually begin teaching me her bloody fancy native language, then  _maybe_  I'd finally be part of a damned conversation.”

Her eyes are gentler, almost fond now when she looks back at you. “ _Saitei, Hansen_.”  _You're the worst, Hansen_ , she says, but she's grinning like a fox - a rarer than a blue moon experience - so you can't help but laugh anyway.

* * *

 

Right now, Mako's radiating with excitement, grinning every time she thinks you don't notice - how on earth is that even supposed to happen, you're thicker than thieves and you know yourselves as well as you do each other - and you know she's hiding something from you.

“Out with it already, Mako.” you tell her after class, slinging an arm 'round her shoulder without so much as a by-your-leave. “Tell me what's going on.”

You can feel her smiling, but her eyes maintain a neutrality that can only be learnt from close and frequent proximity to Marshall Pentecost. “There's nothing going on.”

“Aw, c'mon, Mako!” You've grown a head taller than her, and then some - ahh, the wonders of puberty - it only makes it easier to make a playful attempt at a headlock. You muss her hair. “Fess it up, mate - you are a  _horrible_  liar.”

“Hansen,  _stop_  messing up my hair!” Belatedly, you remember that Mako's long hair had been in a long, tightly woven braid, and your ribbing had made it look as if she had been rolling around on a floor laden with static electricity.

“Why would I? The messy-hair look suits you.”

“We have to  _spar_  later,” she tells you, grimacing. “I never thought you'd go this far to get an advantage.”

“Okay, fine.” you grip her shoulder, sitting her down on the first stair step you can see. Sure it leads to a door, but damn it, the person inside can always say 'excuse me'. “Turn around.”

She complies, not questioning you until she can feel your hands weaving through her hair. “What are you doing?”

“Fixing it.” It's been a long time since the last time you've done this - you were eight, still asking your mum for a sister as you fixed her hair - but it's a rhythm, and you can fall into a rhythm quickly enough. “Why don't you ever cut it short, if you don't want it in your way?”

“Then it'd get even  _more_  in my way, don't you think? Since I would not be able to tie it back.”

“You  _do_  have a point.”

“Of course,” she drawls, leaning in to you. “I  _always_  do.”

“Don't get cocky with me, mate.” you say, unintentionally mirroring the words she always tells you. “My hands are on your hair.”

“Fine, fine.”

“So, are you going to tell me about it?”

“Maybe if you beat me by a landslide, later.” she replies, and as you tuck hair behind her ears you can feel Mako smiling.

“As if you'd ever let me.” Braid finished all the way down, you rifle through your jacket pocket with a free hand. You look down at the thing in your hands, considering it. Remembering where it came from, and chasing away the grief that is always so quick to follow.

Then accepting the fact that it'd look better on her than in a dusty box.

You coil the braid into a bun at the top of her nape, securing it closed with the hairclip. “There, all done.”

She touches a hand to her hair, feeling the clip and pursing her lips. “I won't even ask how you got a girl's clip, but you didn't have to, Hansen.”

“Think nothing of it. You like blue, don't you?”

Suddenly the door swings open and Mako flinches so you hold her up and away from the doorframe as possible. Your chin reaches over the crown of her head so you look over to glare at the person on the other side of the door, only -

“Chuck, Mori.” Hercules Hansen says, with a hand absentmindedly rubbing his chin. “What are you kids doing here?”

Mako scurries off of the steps and out of your arms in a way that only she can make graceful. You decide to follow suit, because putting as much space between you and your old man has always been priority number one.

“Mister Hansen,” Mako says, with that little instinctive inclination of her head. “We were on our way to the training grounds.”

“Ah, so it's you I should thank then, huh? The boy's getting stronger by the day.” The old man makes a move, holds out a hand as if to ruffle your hair. Considers. Gingerly ruffles Mako's instead. “Thank you.”

 _Thank you for being there for him when I couldn't_ , he thinks but does not completely say, but the fond crinkle of his eyes bears a tiredness to it that did not come from MN-19, and it gives him completely away.

“Let's go, Mako.” you say, gruffly, willing away the lump in your throat that suddenly decided it wanted to be there. You reach out for her hand instead. “We need to get a move on.”

Your backs are turned from him but you can feel the blasted laser-pointed gaze of your old man following you out. He probably zeroes in on her new hair clip, or your entwined hands, but right now you're not thinking about either of them.

Rather, what you're thinking right now is that you really, really envy Mako. 

Hey, who wouldn't be? She gets to have  _Stacker_   _Pentecost_  for a father.

* * *

 

You eventually don't win by a landslide. She takes sparring like a goddamned science, which is probably why you always find it difficult to overpower her.

Matching her pace-for-pace, however, you can do that. Easily. Suddenly you understand everything the academy has ever taught you - it's not a fight, it's a conversation. It's a two-way road and the two of you can navigate through it, in the dark, without headlights or a GPS.

You've never really given much thought to who your future co-pilot would be, but now in your imaginary Conn-Pod you look to your right and see a glimpse of dark eyes, a pale-skinned cheek. You've never told her you wanted her to be your co-pilot, but you think she already knows.

Besides, who else would ever want to put up with you, but  _her_?

The knock on the door brings you back to your senses. You never really were one for visitors, never really were one for people - so it can only be one of five. Judging by the lateness of the evening, and the fact that your old man is off somewhere doing God-knows-what, it could only be one...

 _...but she wouldn't, would she?_  You think as you unlock the door and gingerly guide it open.

True enough, it  _is_  her – who else would it goddamned  _be_ , anyway – and she is holding out what appears to be a big, wriggling box. “Surprise!”

“Yup, consider me surprised, mate.” you grin, ushering her in. It might seem unsightly for you to have a girl in your room at this time of night, but who cares, Mako’s your best (and only) mate and even if you weren’t, you’re not so far gone that you’d hurt Stacker Pentecost’s charge.

She’s bouncing on the balls of her feet like she does when she is nervous, happy, excited, and tense – so you deduce that she’s probably feeling all of those things at once, right now. “Guess what.”

“What do you mean…the box? Guess what’s in the box?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it’s probably alive, for one.” you say, squinting your eyes like detectives do in those silly old dramas she likes so much. “The holes and all-around wriggling sort of gave it away.”

“ _Of course_  I’d put holes in the box, I wouldn’t want to be saddled with Schrödinger’s cat.” she huffs, indignantly. But she still smiles as she coaxes answers out of you. “Carry on.”

“It’s a pretty small animal, considering the box, but also rather heavy, since you looked a bit strained when you were carrying it earlier…”

“I was  _not_  strained.”

“Yes you were, mate, I have 20-20 vision. I should know.”

“Urgh,  _fine_.”

“It’s most probably domesticated, since you were able to coax it into staying in that box for God-knows-how-long, but it’s not a cat.” you wrinkle your nose, remembering. “You don’t like cats.”

“I don’t like being  _compared_  to one, rather.” Mako sends a weary look your direction. “You, of all people, should know.”

“Don’t think a cat suit would look good on you, huh.”

“I think a cat suit is silly and if I were to wear some skintight bodysuit I’d rather it come with real,  _proper_  armor.” Her eyes grow dreamy and vague, and you know what she’s thinking about now. “Like the suits the Jaeger pilots wear. Do you think they’re really as constricting as they look?”

“Don’t worry, mate.” you say, sitting yourself down on a chair opposite her. “We’ll find that out soon enough.  _Together_.”

Mako looks at you like the moon and the stars and  _oh goddamnit, was that a slip of the tongue, this is about to become awkward oh dear Lord please strike me down now –_

“Together.” she says, finally, the smallest of smiles lighting up her face. “That sounds like a good idea. But –” She doesn’t say it, but you can hear her thinking  _are you sure?_  in the silence, perfectly loud and clear.

“Who else did you think it’d be, mate?” You’re not used to smiling – proper, non-sarcastic smiling – but you figure you always seem to do it around her. Mako is your best mate and your sparring partner and your sometimes-tutor and she is the sister you never had, and every time you think about piloting you think she’ll be there with you. It just fits right. “Why, Mako, did you particularly have some other guys in mind?”

“Oh,  _yamete_. You’re horrible.”

“But you love it.” you smirk back, poking her cheek.

She rolls her eyes. “And only Heaven knows why.”

“Seriously, though, Mako.” you return to looking as serious as you can, which is – well, not much, really. “If you have any other copilots in mind, just tell me. I’d fume for while, yes, you know me, but it’ll be all right.”

Such subservience of yours proves to be totally disorienting for Mako, because when she speaks she pointedly does not look at you. “Of course I would want to be your copilot, Hansen. It’s just that – well, my mind is not exactly a very pretty place.”

“So is mine.” you say, forgetting about your bravado, if only for a moment. “But we’ve gotten through this far, we’ll get through that too. Isn’t that what your  _sensei_  keeps teaching –  _copilots, they choose to believe in each other_?”

Her face brightens up at the mention of her  _sensei_ , but she quickly reverts back to her neutral state. “Yes. It is. But –”

Your gut feeling is telling you that she is about to launch into another impressive tirade of self-flagellation, so you speak over her instead. “But I believe in  _you_ , Mako.” You look her straight in the eyes, just like she always does you. “Everyone else’s just a bunch of chumps who don’t know right from left. But you’re different. And that’s what I believe in.”

There is a smile on Mako’s face now, and her eyes seem to be glazed over with tears. “Thank you, Hansen. I – well, nobody’s ever said that to me before.”

Now, that’s confusing. “Not even your  _sensei_?”

“Well, he does. But he does not count, not actually.” Mako looks down, cheeks burning red. Is she embarrassed? “I have always had the feeling that maybe he just says such things to humor me.”

“Mate, you’re at the top of the sodding class. I don’t think that Stacker Pentecost is lying when he said you were his best and brightest.” you guide her chin up, back to facing you. “What’s in the box: it’s a dog. What shall we call him?”

She opens the box and in her arms is a big lump of skin and wrinkles, with a panting tongue. It looks horrible. It’s just perfect.

“You are welcome to call him anything you like.” Mako says, handing the bulldog puppy to you. “But me, I call him Max.”

“Max.” you murmur, looking at the puppy from this way and that. It –  _he_ – reaches out to lick your face. Two seconds with Max, and already you are in love. Weird, you've never thought of yourself as a dog person. “It’s a good name.”

“Because he’s the greatest.” Mako coos, rubbing circles on Max’s back. “Just like his human.”

You smile at them, then, your best friend and the most adorable dog in the universe. “Just like  _both_ of his humans.”

“As you wish.” she says, laughing, standing up from the bed and walking to the door. “The clock just struck midnight. I must go.” She ruffles Max’s fur, and your hair, as she turns away.

“Happy birthday, Chuck Hansen.”

* * *

 

When you're pronounced drift-compatible, exactly zero people are surprised.

Least of all Mako. The two of you are side-by-side as you always are, and you can bet good money that she'd absorbed some of your  _swagger_  from sheer non-Drift-related osmosis.

It's to be expected - you've spent so much time in each other's company that you find yourself bowing briskly to people instead of shaking their hands or - your usual, actual in-character choice of action - going off without a word.

You like to hype yourself up by saying that you know more than enough, that you're ready, that you were meant to be a pilot.

(Well, at least one of those remains to be the truth.)

But when faced with the actuality of the Drift...everything's all so terrifyingly codependent for a teenager. Even if - and this is the kicker - this whatever-it-is you share with Mako is the most secure you've felt in your life so far.

You might even go as far as to say that you  _love_  her, like all the other reindeer who saw her and saw nothing but her fragile looks and soft smiles keep saying. But you're as close as people can be without actually drifting, and you both know that you share isn't that easy to pigeonhole.

It only makes sense that the bond you share is just like the both of you - explained away as something simpler, easier to comprehend, because nobody can ever make heads or tails of it.

Least of all you yourselves.

* * *

 

“No,” you say, shaking your head as the Marshall and your old man look on. It was never supposed to come to this. “All due respect, sir, but surely you can see I cannot be allowed to drift with him.”

Marshall Pentecost doesn't go off and say something so crass as  _daddy_   _issues_ , but he might as well had been. “You were there, Hansen. Surely you noticed the steadiness of your neural handshake?”

“All family members are drift compatible, one way or another. Shared genes, and all that.” you snap back, wondering how the Marshall would think this works when he, everyone in the Shatterdome, and their fathers, all know how much you  _hate_  your father. “But percentages make a different story.”

Your old man hasn't spoken up in a while, despite your obviously active attempts to displace him. He's expected this, after all, you've shared a mind, he knows what you are trying to do.

He also doesn't think you'll succeed.

But you have to, she  _has_  to, there is no other way you could operate at a hundred percent. They know that.  _This will work_.

“And besides, even if you were to calibrate our neural signatures, it'd be useless.” you stand up, fixing your lapels to distract yourself from the glare the Marshall is sending you. “See, I already  _have_  a copilot.”

“Oh?” the Marshall says, steepling his fingers. He looks genuinely amused. “I didn't hear about that. Herc?”

“Neither have I,” your old man lies, smoothly, impressively. He looks up at you, once, and mutters something that may have been  _be goddamned careful_  under his breath.

“As far as copilots go, I don't think you'd find one among your cohort that's better than your own father.” Marshall Pentecost continues on, raises and eyebrow. “Simulators are no match for actual battle, after all.”

“Sir,  _I've_ been through nothing but simulators, either. And yet you're choosing me.” You look in the Marshall's eyes, fully aware that he is merely humoring you, allowing you to complain this much - probably figuring once you get this rage out of your system, you'll give up and defer to him. But you don't want that.

(He looks well-practiced to dealing with the anger of sixteen-year-olds, you think, which is ridiculous because when you think of  _Mako_  and  _rage_ , they just don't seem to sit right with you.)

“And sir, please do  _not_  tell me I'm a special case. All new pilots are exposed to nothing but simulations before they are chosen. I see no reason why he should be chosen over my co-pilot, if those are your only reasons.”

“Fine, then, Hansen, make your case.” the Marshall says, beckoning you closer. “What were your compatibility percentages?”

“Eighty-nine to ninety-one.” you say, knowing that this is head and shoulders above you and your old man's sixty to seventy percent.

The Marshall's ears perk up, a little. Such a level of compatibility is unprecedented; the last one that came close was that of the Chinese triplets, who were always in the high nineties. “That  _does_  sound promising. Simulator scores?”

“Fifty-one drops. Fifty-one kills.” you say, slowly, waiting for realization to strike.

...and the other shoe drops. The Marshall actually  _stills_ , and the look your dad throws you is so full of pity you want to  _scream_.

“Well,” you continue on, trying for confidence. “I always tell her that her reputation precedes her, but she never does listen to me.”

* * *

 

The thing is, you've always known that Marshall Stacker Pentecost has an impressive pair of lungs on him. You just never really did anything that led to you having to see them work in person.

Not, at least, until now.

 _Jesus Christ_  he's been going on for a while already. You think even the guys under the Breach can hear what he is saying.

“ _Mako_.” The Marshall says, in a quieter voice than his irate screaming. “Did she put you up to this, Hansen?”

Despite being shouted at by the Marshall for...quite a while already, there is no way you are throwing her under the bus to save your damned hide. “No, she doesn't even know I've been chosen.” you reply, because it's true anyway.

Besides, if Pentecost had decided, you know she won't even fight back. She's a good daughter that way - but you aren't, you never will be, and if wanting her to pilot Striker Eureka with you is  _selfish_  then so be goddamned it.

You promised.  _Together_.

* * *

 

...which is why it angers you to no end that she doesn't even have anything to say.

She's been going all out just to avoid you, you know this. Because lately she had been fussing over Striker with you, bickering over silly little things like decals and wiring and how the bulldog on the logo did not at all look like Max.

Now, right now, she's working on Typhoon, which is no surprise, and the Wei Tang brothers keep looking at you as if they want to kill you...which is no surprise, either. They never really did like you much.

The surprise is that every time you lock eyes on her, she looks away.

Mako's never done that before - never shied away from people's gazes, whether yours or anyone else's. She has beautiful eyes that stare right into your soul, and if you were to be completely honest with yourself, you miss them. You miss  _her_.

This is why one day, you decide to tell all your hesitance to sod off, and wedge your foot in just as she closes the door.

“--nngh!”

“I'm wearing steel-toed boots, mate.” you tell her, nerves strung tighter than you've ever known. “I can stay here for a while.”

“Suit yourself,  _Ranger_  Hansen.” she replies, and there isn't even a touch of playfulness in it. Mako sounds like she's reading her lines from a script, and you hate it.

“Don't gimme that, Mako.” you peer into her room, and sure enough, she is right in front of you. You stare her down. She flinches, and walks away. “We both know that I said the truth. My copilot is  _you_.”

“But, the Marshall -  _Sensei_  - he said no, Hansen. He said no.” Mako looks down, once more not looking at you. “He says he needs me here, for Jaeger maintenance. I am apparently the only person he could trust with a classified project…it would behoove me not to disregard his decision.”

“Mako, are you really going to do this? I mean –” you remember the way your old man had looked at you after the initial Drift, wary, but understanding. “ – I think my dad knows, too. He didn’t seem too averse to the idea.”

“Yes, I know, but the Marshall and I – we made a promise, you see.” She toys with the tips of her hair. It’s longer now, loose and tumbling down her shoulderblades. From what little you can see in her room, you can see your mother’s hair clip on her desk.

“His refusal of my being a pilot means ‘not now’. I know it sounds childish of me to agree, but maybe he’s right. Maybe I am not ready. Besides,” she tries to smile, but it’s a faint copy of her old smiles. Your heart aches. “He didn’t mean ‘never’.”

“This is ridiculous, Mako.  _Ridiculous_.” Your voice is rising now, and you can feel your heart beating wildly. “We had a promise too, we said –”

“We said together. Yes, I know. But right now, you have a father.”  _And I don’t_ , she doesn’t say, but you know, you’re drift compatible,  _damn it_ , you know her better than you know yourself. “And he needs you.”

“Well, I don’t see why I have to go running just because the old man  _needs_  me,” you snap back, suddenly wanting to punch someone. “when the co-pilot  _I_ need is all too content to sit pretty and blindly obey anything her fake father tells her!”

You are aware that raging at her is not the best choice of action. But right now, you are too angry, too wound up, too hurt to care.

Mako looks like she’s been struck, but she composes herself quickly. Quicker than you could. It’s always been what she’s good at – you don’t know if you should hate her for that.

“It's not obedience,  _Charles_.” Mako tells you, dark eyes solemn and resigned. It’s a look that would never look good on her. “It's  _respect_.”

With that, she closes the door in your face, and you grunt, putting one foot in front of the other as you walk away before you are driven to do something out of character like cry.

* * *

 

You don’t ever want to see her again, but she has to be there when you leave on the plane to Sydney. Everyone’s there, after all, it’s not like she can just wander off and slither into the shadows.

And besides, the last time she did that, you were with her, grinning the whole while. Why would she ever do that again, if she ever wanted to forget you?

She’s right beside the Marshall when you and your old man stand in attention. Goodbyes are exchanged, speeches are made, and applauses are had, but you can’t take your eyes off each other.

There’s most probably anger in your eyes and you think you can see it in hers too, but more than that, her eyes just look sad. So you swallow, once, and force yourself to look away.

When you’re about to board the chopper, however, you just cannot help yourself. You were supposed to leave together. If this is how this is supposed to be, you at least just want to see her one last time.

So that’s when you see it.

 _Sayonara_  is the word you can read from her lips, and she’s saying it slowly, dazedly, as if she never thought this day would come.  _Sayonara_.

You board the chopper, and right now you don’t care if it’s unmanly, you don’t care if your father’s on the other seat, you bury your face in your hands and try to remember how to breathe.

 _Sayonara_.

It’s the kind of goodbye that means you’ll never see each other again.

(And even if you do, things will never be the same.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is part one of a three-part story. It has been sliced in three chunks to maintain a steady update schedule of every Tuesday, to hopefully tide it over until I am done with finals or until I can stop crying over part three enough to start work on part two.
> 
> The relationship between Mako and Chuck is meant to be, to use a Homestuck term, a moirallegiance (please look it up if you can, it has to do with storge), but you can view it as platonic or romantic as you wish. If it were romantic, though, it’d be more of a mutual unreciprocated love – they’re both in love with each other, but they can’t follow it through. Me, I like it better as a moirallegiance/platonic soulmate thing.
> 
> Some of the Japanese terms were already translated in the text, but here they are, in one place: sensei – teacher; muzukashii – interesting; saitei - you’re the worst; yamete - stop it
> 
> Another thing I’d like to point out is that Mako is antsy about Chuck calling her by name because he’s been calling her with yobisute (no honorifics) which is supposed to be reserved for spouses, family members, and close friends. She decides to shrug it off as a cultural thing, but she finds it presumptuous for her to call him by name – surely they aren’t that close, aren’t they? (Hint: they are. Or were.)
> 
> Like I once told Ate Sisi, 15-year-old Chuck is 50-50 tsun-and-dere, while Chuck in Pacific Rim is 95-5 tsun-and-dere. On a good day.
> 
> That’s all for now, I hope you liked it! And I hope you don’t mind the wait for part two.  
> 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there PacRim fandom! It's been a long time.
> 
> Okay, so here goes: when I was writing To A Stranger, I was kinda going through a rather dark phase in my life, for lack of a better term. Basically I was feeling down and kinda hit a slump with my writing - ending up in me writing really emotional stuff, like this fic.
> 
> The reason why this was never updated, however, was because I was not able to properly save the files I had for this fic - the phone I had been using to work on this broke, so it's only these broken-off first drafts that I have today. But for the purpose of completeness, here they are, all I have left of the supposed chapters two and three. Chapter 2's in Mako's POV, chapter 3 in Raleigh's. Hope you like 'em, somehow.

**_Chapter 2_ **

_...I am not to speak to you_ _—_

_I am to think of you when I sit alone,_

_or wake at night alone,_

_I am to wait_ _—_ _I do not doubt I am to meet you again,_

_I am to see to it that I do not lose you._

* * *

* * *

 

Years pass.

You still aren't a Jaeger pilot.

This irks you more than you tell Cheung and Sasha and Newt it does, but you swallow down the envy, the annoyance. It's almost a talent, for you. _Sensei_ has his reasons, and you are confident you will overcome them soon enough.

Hopefully, _sooner_ rather than later.

The thing is, you know that Striker's been seconded to Hong Kong, but you never really liked thinking of it.

This is _war_ and there are more pressing, important things to think about that are not about past friendships or broken promises, so everyday you look over the mission reports messily signed _C. Hansen, Ranger_ while managing to not feel anything at all.

Just like you said. It's a _talent_.

* * *

 

Your name is Mako Mori, and right now you keep your face cool and devoid of all emotion. Even if right now, you just feel the need to punch something.

 _Of course_ you can show this decommissioned pilot around base! You've done it many times before, only back then you weren't escorting men whose pictures used to be plastered on your wall, who were scheduled to be piloting your pet project.

The pet project that you know full well _you_ are supposed to be piloting. Yes, life is horrendously unfair.

" _Imeji to chigau_ ," _I imagined him differently,_ you say, not very kindly. _Sensei_ \- the Marshall, now, you're _working_ \- clicks his tongue in warning.

 _Watch it, Mako,_ he used to tell you, when you were little. _Sometimes, honesty's best dispersed in small amounts._

Maybe you shouldn't have been too much surprised - Raleigh Becket's no longer the golden boy you saw in all those magazines years ago, and from the looks of him he sure as hell _isn't_ going to start being like one now.

...just like how you sure as hell won't start fawning over him again. You are a _grown woman_ , for heaven's sake.

Nevertheless, there is something you seem to have forgotten: life is unfair, yes, but it doesn't mean she can't be _suprising_.

" _Chigau no?_ " Raleigh Becket says, a playful grin on his face as he looks at you. Your mind, being momentarily blank, feels free to utter an endless mantra of repeating _"oh, crap"_ s. " _Yoi ka, warui ka?_ "

(The answer is actually ' _for better_ ', but it's not as if you'd be so crass as to remind him that the last you saw of him, he looked better because his brother was _still_ _alive_.)

"My apologies, Mr. Becket." you reply, praying to any and all deities currently listening that your cheeks be not as burning as they feel right now. The grin on Becket's face only grows wider.

" _Takusan no koto wo kikimashita_." you continue on, in Japanese, because the farce is up and if you're going to hell you might as well do it properly.

There is this look on Becket's face that tells you he wants to say something to that. But then the elevator door opens, and Hermann and Newt enter the picture, and - it's not exactly buying you time, but it's a relief nonetheless.

* * *

 

Right now - during work hours, in this elevator - is neither the time nor the place for _this_ , but you think it anyway.

This is silly, and childish, and maybe the slightest bit narcissistic, but when he looks at you, you think Raleigh Becket can see straight down your soul.

Here's the catch: you have felt this way exactly once before.

* * *

 

You are not particularly minding the Marshall and his newly-reinstated Ranger Becket. Instead you luxuriate in the familiarity of your surroundings - the steady sounds of the flipping war clock, the thumping beats of the Lieutenants' boombox, the constant dribbling of that damned basketball.

On that front -

Hu turns to you, eyes crinkled up in a way that asks _that him?_ , while simultaneously catching one of Jin's more complicated throws. _Look, no hands._

You raise both eyebrows, roll your eyes, conveying: _Yes, of course, who else would it be?_

From this distance, you think you can see a mischievous glint in Jin's eyes as he mouths, slowly, deliberately: _later._

If anyone ever knew about your teenage Becket fangirl past, it'd be _them_. You basically hounded the triplets silly for news about Gipsy Danger...you have a sinking feeling that _later_ , lunch time, would be an _experience_.

This time both your companions are facing Cherno. From the other side of the Dome, you can see the smirk of the Lieutenant's blood-red lips as she turns up the volume dial, just so.

Not _again_.

You know then that somebody, one of the three, has definitely fumbled with the basketball (imperceptible, but still, present, an inconsistency), and that Sasha's eyes fall on you as she grins and says, _watch_.

Jin makes a shot, and bellows: "Your music is _horrible_!"

This opinion, at least, was true - if what Hu had told you before was in any case true, Ukranian hard house apparently followed the youngest Wei Tang triplet in his nightmares. You decide that you really needn't know why.

" _Horrible_!" Hu echoes, managing to be a touch patronizing, and from across the room you can see the beginnings of a grin on Aleksis' face. Hu rolls his eyes in return. Ever since an altercation apparently involving (according to Sasha) a drinking straw and an electrical circuit, those two have gotten along like a house on fire.

Cheung dribbles the basketball as he yells his ultimatum: "Don’t disrespect the Dome!"

...when they act this out, those three always sound like Triad members from those godawful movies they like watching. Which is probably their intention, come to think of it.

Dribble, throw, _shoot_. Olympic-level coaches would _kill_ _kaiju_ for a chance to scout them.

You steal a quick look at your companions to see what they think of this - on one end, _Sensei_ , looking the way he does when Newt tries to rope him into letting him do something dangerous and kaiju-related; on the other end, Becket, eyeing the basketball with something that looks invariably like _envy_.

At first you don't understand, _can't_ understand really, but then it hits you. _Brothers_.

Sasha's smirk only tilted higher, and as she walked towards the triplets you can see Aleksis follow, like a satellite in orbit. The clacking of her boots against the ground is particularly distracting. "If you have problem with Ukrainian hard house, you have problem with life,"

And right there, right now, Aleksis slowly, carefully, _deliberately_ begins cracking his knuckles. It is a feat only emphasized by the chunky oversized rings both husband and wife seem to love wearing.

When they go through their motions, those two always remind you of that Russian Mafia movie they let you borrow some months back. You are sensing a pattern here.

"If you have problem with life... maybe we can _fix_ that." Sasha's striking lipstick only serves as a backdrop for her straight white teeth. It is a look you wish would someday look good on you.

The Marshall turns and directs Becket oh-so-subtly to the penultimate Jaeger in his line-up, presumably thinking he'd be put off by whatever antics the Jaeger pilot quintet has in mind. You, on the other hand, when those five are concerned...you're already thinking of damage control.

Hopefully the boombox will remain unscathed, this time.

 _Welcome to the Shatterdome_ , _Sensei_ had said earlier. You're supposed to be getting to work, but for you, it's more like you've finally come home.

* * *

 

You drop down to a crouch, hands outstretched, as you call him, almost instinctively:

"Max! Do you remember me?"

As the bulldog - whoa, he _has_ grown a lot! - runs to your embrace, assaulting you with happy yelps and a whole lot of dog drool, you are led to think exactly two things.

Truth: Max, true to his name, had grown up to be the most adorable dog in all of human existence.

Consequence: Where Max is, Chuck Hansen is quick to follow.

And there he is, behind his father, _still_ clad in his Conn-Pod armor. It's as if he knew he needed more armor than his new abrasive personality and newer looks of disdain to face both you, _and_ Ranger Becket - let it be known that you were _not_ the only one who spent your teenage years idolizing Gipsy Danger.

"Hey, Max! Don't drool over Miss Mori." Ranger Hercules Hansen looks up at you with a shrug and a look equal parts familiarity and... _regret_ , for some reason. "He sees a pretty girl, gets all worked up..."

There _might_ be a parallel that could be drawn here, if the older man's look was to be meant as anything at all, especially the unconscious jerk his shoulder makes, almost pointing to the man behind him. But you won't go that far.

Becket and the older Hansen talk about how they had gone up against a kaiju together, once - "Manila. Three of us against a Category Four, right?" - and as if it was on cue, something inside your chest decides to clench, _painfully_.

Memories come to you on an erratic installment basis, starting with the dry facts of the matter: Manila was struck twice, one time during the Jaeger Program, by a Category Four - MN-19.

You were still in the Academy, then, and you vaguely remember the outrageous image of the triplets traveling halfway across the world to smuggle into your room a gorgeous, glistening, fragrant roast suckling pig they had begged off of Ranger Hansen for...you have no idea what, they didn't tell.

That reminds you of Ranger Hansen's subsequent visit, and a haunted look on his eyes that you never seemed to like seeing, and a lovely blue-tinted hairclip with translucent petals so thin they looked like fragile glass.

You remember moments of downtime after sparring sessions, having your hair up and your defenses down, and feeling unbelievably _content_.

_\--content to sit pretty and blindly obey anything her fake father tells her--_

You flinch at the memory, and from the looks of his matching flinch from across the Dome, _he_ remembers it too.

Guess it was just life's _hilarious_ joke to make the two of you still some sort of drift compatible after all this time.

 _Wonderful_.

* * *

 

Sasha calls you over at lunchtime, which isn't exactly a surprise, but is kind of unexpected.

"Yes, Lieutenant?"

"Tsk-tsk-tsk. _Still_ too polite, this one." the other woman looks back at you with a grin and a look that could probably be called 'fond'. "'Sasha', _please_. Take a seat."

The mess hall is crowded and filled to the brim with noise and activity, but here, at the Russian.side of the hall, the noise seems to fade out into white noise. "Thank you...Sasha."

"So _very_ polite," Sasha continues on, shaking her head. "And to think you once spent hours on Aleksis' shoulders, playing Jaeger with the entire Vladivostok Shatterdome. Do you know what lengths he had to go to ensure I was not going to follow through with my plan of kidnapping you from Marshall Pentecost?"

"I think - yes, I think I really did not know that."

"A shame, really. You're a good daughter to have." Sasha turns to her husband, a grin resplendent on her beautiful face. " _Oi_ , _Mishka_ , can't we go through with it now?"

"I think you are too young to be her mother, _milaya_."

"My husband always says the sweetest things," the other woman stage-whispers to you, grinning. "Seriously. I think I might just get cavities the next time we Drift, he never stops."

"It's not just when you're drifting, ma'am. Man extols the wonder that is his lovely wife each and every time someone tries to strike up conversa - hey!"

"If you don't want to listen, then maybe you shouldn't talk my ear off, hmm?" Aleksis playfully punches Hu on the bicep as he smirks. It's done in jest, but knowing Aleksis, the look of pain in the other man's eyes doesn't seem to be scripted.


	3. Chapter 3

**_Chapter 3_ **

_PASSING stranger! you do not know_

_how longingly I look upon you,_

_You must be he I was seeking,_

_or she I was seeking,_

_(it comes to me, as of a dream...)_

* * *

* * *

 

Of course you expected that Marshall Pentecost was not going to leave without a speech. He's the fixed point, his words boost morale, send your blood pumping. It's just what he does best, other than piloting Jaegers.

Or saving little Japanese girls.

That's also why you fully expected Marshall Pentecost holding Mako by the shoulders, looking into her eyes and saying goodbye. They're the only family they have left, and they're about to lose each other.

And besides, whether you win or lose, Pentecost's a dead man walking - this is the only thing that makes Mako hurt all the way down to her bones.

Only thing is, that's how other people would see it. You, on the other hand, happen to know of another thing, a  _person_ , another reason why Mako seems to be sporting a spectacularly solemn look - and he happens to be right behind you.

It is a fact of life that you don't care much for Chuck Hansen, but you decide to ask him anyway. Oh, the things you do for Mako.

"What about you?"

Chuck looks down from where he had been pretending to look at something over the Marshall's shoulder, and glowers at you. "Huh?"

"This is a  _suicide mission_ , just in case you've forgotten." you say, idly, aiming for nonchalance, and disgust. Showing  _pity_  for Chuck Hansen would only do you more harm than good. "You really don't have any last words? You must have a  _sad_  life."

There is a lightning-quick-flash of despair in Chuck's eyes before he holds it down, reverting back to disdain.

"Well, it's not my fault that friends are good for nothing but being bloody distractions,  _Ray_." He huffs, looking much more like a child than a Jaeger pilot, as he begins to turn away. "This is  _silly_. I'm gonna check on Striker."

Chuck is younger and stronger, but you are faster, so when your hand reaches out he doesn't get very far. He sneers, and it looks very much like he wants to punch you.

But he doesn't. You think he knows what you want to say, already.

" _Jesus Christ_ , Hansen. I'm talking about  _Mako_. Before we all go off and eventually die, I think the least you owe her is an apology."

"Well, if the little  _princess_  can't handle the goddamned heat, then maybe she shouldn't be intruding into my kitchen, should she?" He pulls and he pulls but no sir, you are not going to let go. "Damn it, Becket,  _let go_!"

You frown, and look him dead straight in the eyes. His regrets or the lack thereof is not a concern to you, but you know what he means to her, how they were supposed to be if only things didn't work out for them. "We  _both_  know that's not what I mean."

He pauses, just a second, and it's enough for you to get your next words in.

"If you can't, then can you just tell her something else." You look at him, wishing you were as persuasive as the Marshall and Yancy and Mako all at once. "Tell her  _goodbye_."

He looks at you with remnants of an emotion you can never recognize, but then he slaps your hand away, stands up a little straighter. From the other side of the dome, you can see Mako do the same, nodding to something Pentecost had said.

Drift compatible,  _indeed_.

You should feel jealous, but you understand. So you don't.

"We  _already_  said goodbye." Chuck spat, eyebrows crossed in anger. " _Five years ago._ Saying it again now would make no goddamned sense." He fixes you with a glare that might incapacitate a lesser man. "Hope your Jaeger breaks a leg."

He's leaving, but you sure as hell won't let him get the last word. "She cared for you, y'know? Still does." You look at his retreating back, and fear for how Mako will feel when she catches wind of this in the Drift. But you'd have at least tried. "She always will."

Chuck doesn't look back at you - stubborn,  _stubborn_  boy - but, beyond your expectations, he replies. He speaks so quietly, you almost moss it in the crowd:

"Same here. But it doesn't change anything."

* * *

 

You are on your way to the Conn-Pod, suited up to the neck and ready, helmets in your hands. You were going to ask Mako  _did you hear us?_ but who are you kidding, you know she did. So you ask something else.

"You loved him, didn't you?"

"More than a brother." she replies, head up and gaze down as she falls into step with you. "They used to say we were  _in_  love. But we both knew better." Mako fixes you with a look, all shadows and seriousness, both a remnant from and a culmination of her younger days. "And now, so do you."

"I understand." you say. "And I know it sounds disrespectful of me to say, but back then, what the two of you had was very much like - well, like what we have now."

Her footfalls stop, abruptly. You know she is facing to look up at you before she actually does.

"I have lost numerous things, valuable things. People." Mako begins, sad but not in despair like Chuck Hansen was. "I have lost my families to the kaiju, both the ones I chose and the one I was born to. Those who I had not lost to kaiju," and here she touches a hand to her hair, as if feeling for something that was no longer there. "I lost to time."

She's been building up to a resolution, this entire time, and her determination is beyond radiant. "I have lost many things. Will lose much more. I will  _not_  lose  _you_."

Her eyes are dark and unwavering and you understand what Pentecost said about fixed points.

If you lose Mako Mori, you will fall. End of story.

"Good. Neither will I."

* * *

 

For some reason, Mako's first thought of choice, entering the Drift, is of a hairclip.

You've never seen her with one - her hair's been bobbed short since you knew her, but you know she used to have long hair, she'd used this to tie her hair up when she was in a hurry,  _how annoying, I should chop it all off then -_

"You looked cute with a braid," you say out loud, suddenly, then remembering that everything you say out loud can be heard by the crew back home, her father in all but blood, and her dormant-status best friend who probably knew that braid better than any one of you does, seeing as he used to fuss over it himself.  _This is awkward._

 _No it isn't_ , she thinks back at you, the slightest hints of a smile in her thoughts.  _But please do focus on the mission._

 _Will do. You asked so nicely,_ you think in return, feeling on top of the world and a little bit too satsified for someone who lives to kill kaiju. If the Marshall and Hansen weren't on the other side of the line, you know you would be humming incessantly. Like a fool.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is part one of a three-part story. I have posted it now so I can finally stop fussing over it and focus on academic matters...and part two. After I'm done sobbing over part three.
> 
> The relationship between Mako and Chuck is meant to be, to use a Homestuck term, moirallegiance (please look it up if you can, it sort of has to do with storge), but you can view it as platonic or romantic as you wish. If it were romantic, though, it’d be more of a mutual unreciprocated love – they’re both in love with each other, but they can’t follow it through. Me, I like it better as a moirallegiance/platonic soulmate thing.
> 
> Some of the Japanese terms were already translated in the text, but here they are, in one place: sensei – teacher; muzukashii – interesting; saitei - you’re the worst; yamete - stop it
> 
> Another thing I’d like to point out is that Mako is antsy about Chuck calling her by name because he’s been calling her with yobisute (no honorifics) which is supposed to be reserved for spouses, family members, and close friends. She decides to shrug it off as a cultural thing, but she finds it presumptuous for her to call him by name – surely they aren’t that close, aren’t they? (Hint: they are. Or were.)
> 
> Like I once told Ate Sisi, 15-year-old Chuck is 50-50 tsun-and-dere, while Chuck in Pacific Rim is 95-5 tsun-and-dere. On a good day.
> 
> That’s all for now, I hope you liked it! And I hope you don’t mind the wait for part two.


End file.
